Nomenclature
by Firebirdie
Summary: The galaxy is getting smaller and there's no way out.
**A/N:** Meta thinly disguised as fridge horror, or maybe fridge horror thinly disguised as meta.

 **Nomenclature**

 **o.O.o**

"Pierce, what happened to the others?"

"Dunno, my lord."

". . . I don't suppose you're going to elaborate."

Pierce shrugs. "Not much to say. Crew drifted apart after you disappeared. I got snapped up by the propaganda department, and here I am."

Evren stares at him. "Drifted apart _how_?"

"Without you, there was nothing holding us together. We went our separate ways."

"I _know_ ," Evren snaps. "What ways were those? Did anyone talk about where they might go?"

"You really think that bootlicker Quinn would tell me anything?"

"If only to rub his good fortune in your face, and that's to say nothing of Vette or Jaesa."

"Heh. I almost miss the little weasel . . ."

"Pierce, if you don't give me a straight answer . . ."

Pierce chortles. "You can't intimidate me, my lord."

Evren stills. He searches Pierce's face for anything, any sign of emotion beyond vague amusement. There is none. And the Force tells him nothing, either.

Nothing at all.

"As you were, Pierce," he says tonelessly.

 **o.O.o**

"Jorgan!"

The major looks up from his drink, frowning. The rest of Havoc Squad eyes him warily. "Yes, Commander?" says Jorgan.

"Serrin Crayce," Evren says. "What do you know about Serrin Crayce?"

"Who?" says Jorgan, blank.

Breathe. Keep breathing. "Yuun is downstairs. You know that, right?"

"Huh."

". . . I killed Tanno Vik. He was Havoc Squad, and I cut him down and left him to rot in a back alley on Asylum."

Jorgan turns back to his teammates as if he'd said nothing at all.

 _Gods_ . . . There must be someone who will listen. There must be. But—Theron has barely said two words to him that weren't mission-related. Senya and Koth don't know anyone from before, and don't seem to give a damn about Evren himself. And dear _Lana_ has been pulling his strings since the escape from Zakuul.

T7-01 won't even talk to him.

A cracked giggle worms its way up his throat.

 **o.O.o**

Evren asks 2V-R8 to meet him on the _Maelstrom_. The ship still feels wrong, but it's the closest thing he has to a home anymore, for all that he's never once used it since Theron brought it to Odessen.

"Hail to the—oh, oh no, my apologies, gracious and fearsome Master!" the droid whimpers as long-unused protocols conflict with current circumstances.

Evren raises a hand, palm-out, placating. "It's all right, 2V. I promise."

It cowers a bit more, but recovers presently. "How might I serve you, Master?"

"Do you remember our conversation about modes of address?"

"I—I have no memory of such a conversation in my databanks, Master. Please don't deactivate me!"

Oh, no. "2V . . . have you been subjected to a memory wipe in the past five years?"

2V quavers, "I'm terribly sorry, Master, but I have neglected to submit myself for a wipe in all that time. I—I know it is against protocol, I shall proceed to the maintenance bay immediately—"

"No, please, don't. I'm not angry with you. Relieved, actually; this is good." He forces a gentle smile, for all that the droid's obsequiousness is making his skin crawl. 2V-R8 should not be so afraid of him—it was only ever this terrified during the early days of the hunt for Jaesa, before it began to believe him when he said he'd not deactivate or punish it for any perceived failures.

And now . . . this.

"Oh, thank you, kind Master . . . wait, good? How is it good?"

"Can you search your databanks for any recorded conversations among the crew, dated after the destruction of Darth Marr's flagship?"

"One moment!" 2V whirrs a bit, then says, tremulously, "I—I'm afraid I have no such records in my databanks."

". . . What about before?" He can barely prevent his own voice's shaking.

"N-negative, Master."

Evren runs his tongue over his lips, tries again. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course, Master. You are the Commander of the Alliance, also known as the Outlander."

"And before that?"

"I'm not entirely certain what you mean, Master—"

"Before my escape from carbonite. Who was I?"

"Is this a test? Oh, no, you believe my memory systems to be faulty! _Please_ , Master, don't scrap me, I can be repaired, I know it!"

"I'm not going to hurt you, 2V, I swear to you," Evren says desperately. "Just—just tell me anything else you know about me."

". . . Are _your_ memory systems faulty?" says 2V, concerned.

"No. I'm merely testing a theory. Please, can you help me?"

"I am programmed to assist!" The droid seems to puff itself up, on somewhat steadier ground.

"Thank you. Tell me who I was before my capture."

A few minutes pass in silence. Then 2V looks at him, photoreceptors very, very blank, voice very flat. "I can't say."

"Tell me this ship's designation."

"This vessel is a _Fury-_ class Imperial Interceptor—"

"Not its model, its individual designation."

"I can't say."

Evren takes a breath. "2V . . . tell me my name."

"I can't say."

". . . Thank you. You have been most helpful. Return to your duties," Evren says mechanically.

"You are ever so welcome, Master," 2V says, tone shifting back to deferential fear as it bows and scrapes its way out the airlock and down the boarding ramp.

Evren waits until it's gone, then rushes into the cockpit and brings up the ship's registry on the navcomm. He skims the file, heart thudding painfully in his chest. There's no name. There should be a name but _he can't find it_ , this isn't—

"Oh gods," Evren rasps, pressing a hand to his mouth. "Oh gods . . ."

He can't—he can't stay here, not on this empty ship without a name—

He draws a lightsaber but doesn't ignite it— _his_ , he built this, he _knows_ it's right because he knows it better than his own fucking _hands_ —and flees the ship that isn't the _Maelstrom_ , into the misty clearing outside.

The Gravestone looms over the valley. Evren can't make his eyes focus on it, not for very long. He looks away and starts walking.

But he can't leave the clearing. There is no way out. He should be able to—to climb the rocks, leap over them, something, anything—but the only way in or out is the walkway leading back to the Alliance base's hangar. He just— _can't_. An entire planet visible just meters away and he's made longer jumps than this but he _can't do it_ and 2V-R8 doesn't know his name and—and—

"What is this?" he demands, clutching at his head with his free hand. " _What have you done to me?_ "

There's no answer.

 **o.O.o**

 _end_


End file.
